Category: Metaphysical/Thoughtful

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Dual Book Review: Keep The Aspidistra Flying and Down and out in Paris and London, both by George Orwell

I stumbled on ‘Keep the Aspidistra Flying’ while browsing audiobooks on Overdrive, a library partnered app that lends out e- and audio- books. I recognized the author, George Orwell, but not the title. I figured it would be a good put-me-to-sleep tome so I downloaded it and spent the next weeks being frustrated, baffled, bored, and confused by turns.

We all know Orwell’s dystopian novels but they’re set in fantastical places that we can only imagine. Aspidistra is set in London between the two great wars and follows the dismal life of Gordon Comstock as he lives a ridiculous life warring against ‘The Money God’.

He’s come up with this idea that middle class people are miserable because they worship this idea of ‘respectable money’ and ‘good jobs’ and without those things, they look down on you. He chooses to fight ‘The Money God’ by eschewing his well paid position as an ad man to work as a poorly paid clerk in a book shop. I never did quite figure out what his worldview was but I found his constant hemming and hawing over money incredibly irritating.

You see, Gordon is exactly the kind of poor person that conservatives think of when they think of poor people. He’s not stupid and he could make more money, but he chooses poverty and then complains about it pretty much every minute of every day. He complains to his best friend who is reasonably wealthy but can’t bear to talk about money because it’s not respectable to do so. He complains about it to his long suffering girlfriend who won’t have sex with him because she’s not ready but he blames his poverty. He essentially makes everyone around him as miserable as himself and then blames his lack of money and everyone else’s respectability for his misery.

The Aspidistra in the title is a hardy houseplant that was common at the time because it could withstand not only the variance in temperature but also the crummy indoor air quality caused by coal and gas heating. Gordon sees it as a symbol of the middle class clutching at respectability and worship of the money God and so he despises it everywhere he sees it, which is really everywhere.

The story follows his internal monologue as he berates his girlfriend for not sleeping with him until she finally gives in, he comes into enough money to pay his sister back and treat his friends to a nice dinner and proceeds instead to blow it on booze and food, sexually assault his girlfriend, hook up with a prostitute who steals the money he was supposed to return to his sister, and punch a police man.
This event lands him in jail, he loses his job, loses his ‘respectable’ housing, and ends up even poorer than he started. And he revels in it. Finally he’s escaped the worship of The Money God and he gets to wallow in his own filth and read trash all day instead of anything intellectually stimulating. His friends try to rescue him from his self created hell but to him, it’s heaven. 

At this point in the story I’m furious. He’s screwed over everyone who cares about him and it’s no ones fault but his own because there’s literally an easy, well paying job waiting for him to take it this entire time and his pathetic high mindedness means he’d rather live in squalor and boredom. What a pathetic shit. His girlfriend even finally sleeps with him to prove her love but she leaves him as she found him: dirty, smelly, and stupid.

And she gets knocked up.

Which then turns his entire life around and he takes the job, marries her, and moves into a nice lodging house and lives happily ever after. With an aspidistra in the window sill.

What the Fuck, Orwell!?! I’m pretty sure this isn’t actually a happy ending? I mean, it sounds ok; guy gets girl, they start a family, he’s deliriously happy… But his new life as the reader leaves him doesn’t fit his ideology. How is he happy?

I was so confused by this book that I suggested it for my next book club session and I’m very curious to see how my friends feel about this book. I felt such strong anger when he tried to rape his girlfriend and when his own form of money obsession ruined his life but my relief at his eventual redemption was confused. Taking into account the dystopian nature of his other works, I can’t imagine that it’s not a cautionary tale of a man shoving his principles under the rug in order to live a superficially happy life.

I finished Aspidistra so unsatisfied that I had to pick up another Orwell so I started his autobiographical Down and out in Paris and London which shed some light on all three of his other works I’ve now read (1984 and Animal Farm, of course). Orwell lived as a tramp and a pauper for a few months in his twenties. He had served in the army and was living ok when someone stole most of what little he had and suddenly he went from what we would think of as paycheck to paycheck to what we think of as straight up homeless.

The book covers the two or three months between the theft and a new job in London that pulled him from poverty but in that time he worked as a dishwasher in a Parisian hotel restaurant, tried some scams, lived as a tramp in and around London, and describes in detail what it feels like to be truly penniless.

Aside from the eye opening descriptions of the physical conditions of poverty, Orwell includes some philosophical ideas around work and the lack thereof, what it feels like to accept charity, and the kinds of men and women stuck in poverty and homelessness and why the middle and upper classes don’t like them. It helped me understand a little better why he wrote some of the other books and where he was coming from when he dreamed up these stories.

I also saw a few quotes I liked and one in particular that I felt resonated with the cause of Sex Workers Rights:

“He (the blue collar working man) is kept at work ultimately because of a vague feeling that he would be dangerous if he had leisure. And educated people, who should be on his side, acquiesce in the process because they know nothing about him and consequently are afraid of him.”

This could very easily be said of anti-prostitution activists on both liberal and conservative sides. They know nothing about us, our lives, and our clients and are thus afraid of all of it. As you’ll see in my coming review of ‘The Bonobo and the Atheist’ I believe fervently in the underlying goodness of humans and that simple, kind, nonjudgemental education can save the world. It’s getting it simple, easy, and nonjudgemental that will be the hard part.

In summary: both of these novels are reasonably short and easy to read and they made me think in ways I hadn’t quite before. Orwell, as we all know, is a phenomenal writer and shares with us a valuable glimpse into a life many of my readers have never known and hopefully never will in the future.

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An Exquisite lover is better than a mediocre listener

I sometimes find myself in a mood. Last time this happened I wrote about the golden girl, repainted into a muted version of herself. This time I wrote about the patrons at the same establishment. It’s not meant to be anything other than amusing. There are some private jokes and some floppy phrases but it’s two hours to publish and I haven’t written anything else yet so you get my odd, whimsical stream of consciousness. A kind of prose poetry for one who hates poems.

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She’s a round faced Julia Roberts and he’s the blandest gent who ever gented. Some thick rimmed hipster tickles some ill tuned ivory as the radio fades. A commercial pops up: support public radio.

I rarely hear conversation truly murmur. Usually it roars, ebbs, or rings. Happy minute pops up. Chocolate and booze oozes carefully. It’s a short menu. The golden girl gleams on the corner. The slow pop of jazz blends the rustle of cash and squeak of leather under the sensuous cackle of comfortable laughter. Glug. Sweet, sour, lonely, surrounded.

The fish slowly explore their minuscule prison as a white coated professional looks on. I feel out of place without my heels; even Seattle casual insinuates elegance here. Strangers are friends and lovers avoid eye contact. Tennis shoes, haha.

My head feels pleasantly funny. I get moody when my partner is out of town. There’s something about knowing an oft warm home is dim and cool. My morning is too soon. Tomorrow will be languid yet tonight.. the night. This music inspires shadow and long glances. I’m tempted to seduce two young men but the pleasure of seduction ends at its inception. I’d rather be skillfully seduced but I doubt the existence of a satisfactory sensualist. I’d rather pay a pro.

A hundred jokes here. A dozen glasses; wine sloshes over the rims. The old school commode rings its wet call from the back. Feed me! demand the ATMs. Nothing over 10$ but no liquor either. Infinite secrets between the lines, stuffed into the stiff wooden pages.

POP!!!

Ah Ella. That croon. It tempts. Feel. Drink. Lust. Despair. The music is the only thing here that changes and even that simply cycles. Our bartender can never leave. We need him and he needs us. Capitalism and socialism both here, living yet fighting.

Julia and her perfect bland look blankly in each others’ direction. They’re thinking or listening or something. Their conversation is the sole absence.

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Stimulating

I’m a Redditor. Some of you have stumbled across me and recognized my writing style, my rhetoric, or my cause in my comments but unless you’re a Redditor you won’t know what I’m talking about.

First, Reddit.com is a user generated content aggregator. The hell doe that mean? It means that users can post content such as images, videos, links to other sources, original text, and even links to different areas of the site itself. Topics range from the benign to the terrifying and, as all communities do, has its share of drama. The community is global and share a certain number of inside jokes like Kyle, the CumBox, /r/theDonald, and your mom. If you don’t understand any of those, that’s ok. It probably because you’re doing something productive with your life.

What I like about Reddit as a social media platform is that, more than any other platform, I can carefully curate my experience. With Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and the like, you can follow certain people or organizations or trending topics, but with Reddit you subscribe to different sub-domains that each have their own vibe. I subscribe to SeattleWA, UpliftingNews, TwoXChromosomes, AdviceAnimals (silly memes), Science, AMA (ask me anything, basically live interviews with interesting people where the interviewer is the community), AskReddit (the inverse of the previous), BestOf, and several other interesting and sometimes highly specific topics such as for my favorite authors or this seriously long form story some guy is writing. It’s a place where I can directly interact with users from all over the world and share information, ideas, and support.

I also like that there is a voting system. As potentially compromised as it is, the voting system generally means that if I sort the comments by ‘top’ the first few pages of replies are generally interesting or quality content. It’s no free-for-all like a news outlet or blog’s commentary. I mean, it is, but poorly written, unhelpful, and outright wrong responses are often buried so you don’t have to waste time on them.

Another thing I enjoy about Reddit is the folks who create novelty accounts. One guy has a duck fetish, another writes only in haiku, /u/poem_for_your_sprog is one of the most talented and prolific poets I have EVER read and shows up all over the place. Another that I get goosebumps from is /u/commentnoir. He writes all his comment responses as if they were ripped from an old times noir novel and they’re actually really, really good. I saved this comment sometime late last year:

“Fresh haircut making me feel like a new man. Long, carefully manicured nails on the back of my scalp. A witchy woman seducing what’s left of my soul. Hide the hard-on; feel it pushing against my jeans. Red rocket ready to paint a Masterpeice the would make Jackson Pollock blush. She’s got full control, and she knows it. Sensation that makes a strong man weak and a rich man buy diamonds.”

I read that and it gave me shivers. It made me want to be the sensation that makes weak men strong and rich men buy diamonds. The musky glamour of Chinatown wafted from the screen and all he was talking about was the scalp massage during a haircut.

Yes, I wrote this entire post, all that background on some website that, if you don’t spend time on it yet, you probably shouldn’t, just so I could share that last phrase with you.

It resonates even more with me now than it did when I first read it. Then, I was still in elastic and flats. Now I ride the world in heels and elegance. Then, the woman I am becoming was a dream. Now, she is my future.

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Bridge City Indeed!

I drove to Portland last weekend. I was supposed to take the train but, due in part to my lack of clock-watching abilities and in part to a mud slide, I ended up driving Sunday morning instead of taking the train Friday afternoon. I had one marvelous appointment, took a girlfriend out for phenomenal Russian tapas at Kachka, and had a long and pleasant shoot with the infamous Jughead (newsletter subscribers see them first!).

Complications to the trip have sparked a rash of inspiration and it’s about damn time.

Friday, I was scheduled to leave on the 2:10 train from Seattle to Portland. I didn’t take any appointments, though I perhaps should have, and I hadn’t prepared the day before for the trip, though I definitely should have. I spent the morning taking a long bath, trying on various photo shoot outfits, and listening to an audiobook. Public transit has mostly cured me of my habitual tardiness; if you’re one minute late, you’re twenty minutes late so now I’m (usually) present and ready early. This time, however, I underestimated not only how long it would take me to walk to the station, but had it in my head that the train left at 2:20 instead of 2:10. I simply wasn’t thinking, I was existing in a state of dissatisfied laziness.

When I arrived, sweaty, at the train station to find boarding over, I was furious. At myself for an unforgivable lack of initiative and at my perception of my own lack of accomplishments lately. I hadn’t finished my blog post on time, I haven’t worked on my book in months, I attended but wasn’t useful at meetings and while in reality I have done quite a bit lately, I didn’t feel as though I had. This was the last straw. I changed my ticket to 6p and stalked away, muttering self recrimination under my breath and searching for someone with whom to pick a fight.

My partner is useless for fighting as every jabbing, pissed off text message met with kind understanding and empathy. I couldn’t hit something walking down the street; my vanity won’t let me appear anything but put together in public. I tried to vent to a friend but she wasn’t available for comment. So I mentally wrote the most scathing, ridiculous email in my history and continued my subaudible, vile litany.

Now I’m stalking up the sidewalk in tasteful heels and a backpack, seething, muttering, and deciding to run some errands. After a short stop at my studio I reemerge into the sparkling, gorgeous day and run one errand, try to run the second but the mangey, God-forsaken government office is closed!, and, anger renewed by inconvenient business hours, I settle into a coffee shop close to the train station for tea, pie, and a clacking vent session.

Then my prepayment software fails me. Square cash rejects one client’s payment and I have to scan my drivers license in order to accept another’s. I can’t find it. The rejected client cancels his appointment. I’m frantically texting and calling the woman I’m renting a work space from and then I get a call from Amtrak. The trains are all canceled until Sunday.

Fuck. Me.

This is when I start crying. Frustrated, angry, on the verge of cancelling the entire trip, everyone else trying desperately to cheer me up and offer options, and disappointed by the pie. It was really good pie but I’ve been spoiled by perfect pie so to me, I’m a girl at a table in the corner, crying over delicious tea and mediocre pie.

I almost canceled everything. I’m so close to fighting with my friends and blowing off clients that I feel I’m an emotional danger and I almost start making phone calls. But I said I would be there and so, after a few hours of writing to blow off steam (I will not be publishing that, haha) and a long, familiar bus ride home, I spent a decent chunk of time working on my new website and feeling like I’m accomplishing things.

The next morning bright and early I get ready to drive to Portland. I need to be there no later than noon so 7:30 and I’m up. Everything is ready to go in the car, I fill up the tank…. And my tire’s almost flat. And the gas station’s air pump is broken. Sigh. Whatever. I fix it and I’m on the freeway by 8:15. It rained the entire drive.

I don’t feel like a real person until 1. I’m sitting on a lovely chaise longue in a dim, quiet room, sipping coffee and eating lunch from the salad bar next door. I’ve got a client in an hour, a shower is waiting for me, and life feels normal again. After that the whole trip was a smashing success.

That said, I am hesitant to return. My friends come to Seattle, though not often, I won’t need or want another shoot for nearly a year, and trying to schedule clients in Portland is like pulling teeth. No one wants to screen, no one trusts my reputation, and no one wants to pay full rates. I feel, with the one notable exception, disrespected and under appreciated and why would I put up with that when you guys are so overwhelmingly delicious!?! I think if I can get a crew to go work a club for the night that could be fun but I’m really not excited about another trip.

Maybe next time I’ll go to Vancouver.

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Musing is my Meditation

Life is weird. Sometimes it’s crazy, sometimes boring, but my life at least seems awfully weird when I talk to my friends who don’t have one like it. I was teasing Claire that we should switch jobs for a day. I can wake up at six, dress in sharp feminine business attire, manage an office for eight hours, then come meet a client for some erotic Bodywork. She can wake up at 8:30, browse Reddit for an hour, don leggings and a boxy sweater, board a bus at ten, spend an hour or so lounging nude with a charming young gent, take a long bath, play with another girl for another few hours, take a nap, practice her French, eventually put clothes on, board another bus and head home. You always want what you don’t have, huh?

Outside, the wind tatters the sidewalk and rain cracks the windows. People with ‘normal’ jobs pass by in their air freshened, engine warmed envelopes as they, most oblivious but some with a shared secret, return from their day. My days blend together sometimes. I remember your face and your cock but not always your name. My assistant, perfectly efficient and pleasantly firm, keeps me busy in person. My precious hour between my beaux; a chance to wind myself up again, stress over who is right on the internet, forget all the things I’m supposed to do. Your missive “I just parked” breaking the shackles of my manufactured online world.

Alice, Verona, Matisse, Caroline… I crave time with you and forget to tell you. Much needed feminine feedback after my daily dose of testosterone. So close and yet schedules so far off.

Twangy tunes fiddle overhead; someone with mediocre but particular taste pumped the juke box. My drink cools as my salad warms and my thoughts drop with the rain. Autocorrect makes my words curiouser. (Typing on my phone because I no longer carry a satchel with my iPad in it. Hurt my shoulders.) The Cue cracks and rattles across the felt as the heating unit hums off and on.

I feel good. Not complacent but content. Content with my present but even more: content with my future. Looking forward towards goals and events with calm excitement. Enjoying that I can take a moment in between then and there to breathe, eat, drink, and enjoy.

SASS is this weekend. If you can, consider attending or donating. This event has already begun building bridges. Seattle has great things ahead of her.

Www.seattle-sass.org click on ‘tickets’ to attend or donate.

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John School

I don’t like it. I think the idea is stupid and condescending. I hate the thought of some government flunky ‘educating’ my beloveds into never seeing me or my friends again. I love my clients and would never want them to see me as a passive victim caught up in ‘the patriarchy’. I don’t want them arrested, I don’t want them scared, and I certainly don’t want them ‘reeducated’ into somehow seeing themselves as broken for coming to see me and my colleagues.

That being said, I did just read an interesting article. Www.gq.com/story/cure-men-who-pay-for-sex-end-prostitution. I was prepared to be outraged, as usual, by some well meaning but misguided government agent shaming clients for seeking out providers to meet their needs. The headline ‘can we cure men who pay for sex’ is disgusting, as if the safe and professional answer to a natural human urge were a disorder. I was not prepared to agree with the heart of the article.

The article’s author observed and related one of the sex buyer reeducation programs here in King County. Apparently they’re a little different than most in that they don’t stick entirely to the fear and shame campaign most ‘classes’ offer. They talk about sexual harassment, women’s safety, emotional stability, healthy relationships, different ways of loving all the people in their lives… putting their decision to seek a sex worker in the context of their emotional health. It sounded surprisingly helpful and honest, if misplaced and condescending.

Connor Habib once said that what we need in the US isn’t more sex education, it’s intimacy education. While I don’t agree in the slightest that seeking sex workers is in itself a natural byproduct of ‘toxic masculinity’ I do agree that men could use a hand learning more about women’s experience. I wish this guy teaching this class would focus his efforts on getting his intimacy education classes out into the public instead of targeting men seeking sex workers. Partly because many men who would never see a sex worker need this education as much as those who do and partly because many men who see sex workers are already getting that education… From their provider!

To any readers who have been through ‘John School’: I hope that you found something valuable but if, as is likely, all you found was shame and anger, please know that it’s wrong. Seeing a consenting adult sex worker can be incredibly healthy and healing and it certainly doesn’t mean you aren’t a respectful, ethical, sexually realized person.

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Aging

We all make mistakes but generally not such basic, rookie ones. She handled it with grace but I shouldn’t have made it in the first place. I uttered the dreaded words ‘for your age’ not only to someone I admire but in front of our client.

As you can tell, I’m sure, my filter between idea and iteration is frayed. Particularly when I’m nervous or flustered. I tend to spit out whatever I’m thinking when it might be better to say nothing at all.

In my apologetic email, I tried again and again to explain myself but everything I wrote just dug me deeper into my hole. I’m kind of like the guy who thinks ‘doesn’t she look great in that tight dress? She’s got such great curves and that dress is so tight so it shows them off. I like her and I like that she looks really hot. Sausages are curved and juicy with a tight casing that makes them look so tempting. I like the way they look and taste. I would like to taste her, too, mmmm.’ And then says “You look like a sexy sausage.” Yeah, that guy? That was me with one of my heroes.

Most of the men and women I spend time with, many of the people who most inspire me, are significantly older than me. It amazes me when I find out their age and, far from lowering my opinion o them, it magnifies it. Very few providers admit to their true age partly because there’s this stigma against aging beauty. For some ridiculous reason, people think that 40, 50, 60, 70, even 80 and above are inherently limiting and there’s this perception that they are less sexually interesting. That’s patent bullshit. I can’t even wrap my head around the idea of aging as a negative in itself. I look at myself five years ago, realize how much I’ve grown since then, and realize that I have at worst EIGHT MORE of those five-year growth cycles.

Over the last five years I have: struck out alone in a new city, explored multiple aspects of the sex industry, achieved a professional certification, discovered and confirmed a life partnership, guided a protégé to safe professional stability, grown my social circle, traveled Europe, set and achieved emotional and financial goals, helped heal and entertain hundreds of beloved clients, and begun writing a book. Imagine the next five years! And the five after that!

However, in this case it was a comment about my colleagues physique. I was marveling that her form was, in my opinion, higher quality than mine. I’ve recently gotten my hands on several of my colleagues and one theme is how much more attractive I find them than myself. I’m sure a small part of it is novelty but they are genuinely in better shape with firm, beautiful busts and tight bottoms, and not only are they in better shape than me but they don’t have the advantage of youth. Also they are all waaaaay more in touch with their sexuality than I am. I feel like I’m cheating. I feel, not ashamed of my youth, but that I need to step up my game if I’m going to look half as good as they do once I reach their level. Of course what comes out is ‘you look amazing for your age’ which is the shittiest, douchiest, most backhanded ‘complement’ known to woman.

Oops.

Also: you get a two-fear this week since I missed last week’s posting time. Sorry.

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It did!

I promise: I wrote this on time and meant to schedule it, I just wasn’t connected to wifi when I wrote it. Thus It’s late but I hope you’ll forgive me.

I’ve seen Rogue One: A Star Wars story twice now and both times I was in tears by the end. Every criticism I had of The Force Awakens has been met and mastered by RO.

Since the original characters hadn’t entered the story yet, I have no expectations about their appearance to be met or dashed, aside from the magnificent return of James Earl Jones as the voice of Darth Vader. The only other returning characters were princess Lea in a perfectly appropriate cameo and General Tarkin, master of the Death Star.

The character of Han Solo was replaced by rebel pilot Cassian Andor. While not as witty or devil-may-care, Cassian is as gritty and real as Han Solo would have been had we seen more of his back story. Cassian, someone we should be rooting for as hero of the rebellion, does some very bad things in the name of the movement and faces a crisis of conscience so big it takes half the film. He’s not nonchalantly blasting obviously bad guys, he’s a soldier following orders who winds up sacrificing every shred of energy and self interest for a greater cause. He’s the Han Solo I was hoping for in TFA: complicated, brave, not always very nice, but dedicated to something he’s spent his entire life working towards.

Our female lead, playing the precursor to the clever and courageous Princess Leah, is Jyn (gin) Erso. Caught up in the machinations of governments she has no interest in, Jyn begins as a self interested prisoner and grows into the one to deliver the most stirring speech of the film. The father-daughter dynamic trikes me particularly as I am very close to my own and with his sacrifice as the catalyst I don’t see her change of heart as artificial.

It’s also worth noting, and has been noted before, that there is no romance in this film, as well there shouldn’t be. They’re in the middle of a freaking war and while some people respond to stress by seeking sex, many don’t. It makes sense for strangers to remain strangers when Jyn uses her wits and strength as a tool instead of her sexuality. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that but it’s refreshing to see the change.)

I complained that the plot of TFA trivialized the search and sacrifice for the Death Star plans because they used the same plot device but everything was an accident instead of carefully planned. This film tells the story that TFA cheapened and does it in a way that made me laugh, made me cry, and sent me home elated. Here, finally, is a Star Wars film that takes itself seriously!

It was said by a friend of mine that Miticlorians ruined the force. The attempt to explain how the force works took some of the mysticism and ritual out of it and tried unsuccessfully to drag a space opera into the realms of science fiction alongside Star Trek and Aliens. There is one character in RO:ASWS that renews the drama and mysticism of the force. He also provides both comic relief and the most poignant scene in the entire film. I had to hold my hands over my mouth to keep from sobbing in the theater both times and the act of writing about it is bringing tears to my eyes. Like legit tears welling up and falling down my face.
And of course the droid. The droids are always the comic relief. The clever, the foreign, the oddly loyal but sometimes kooky hunks of metal that help keep the humans safe. Even the droid was complex. Even the machine had heart.

I had a problem with the fan service in TFA because it felt out of place. The phrases we recognize didn’t fit in the context they were put and so it took me out of the film when I heard them. In RO, it was hella appropriate because the timelines are so close. I think RO leaves off a week or less before ANH begins and so when we see original footage from ANH, it makes perfect sense! When we see an artfully computer rendered princess Leah, it makes perfect sense! When the uniforms and the fighters and the sets are all the same, it makes perfects sense! I walked away immediately wishing to watch ANH so I could ‘find out’ what happens next!

Suffice it to say that, while it did take the entire first half of the movie to introduce our characters, establish back stories, deal with everyone’s crises of conscience, and introduce the real heart pounding action, I didn’t ever feel bored. In short: I loved it! This is the film we will remember as the turning point in the franchise (I hope) from a fun yet frivolous space opera to a grittier, more complex story of fierce loyalty, real passion, quick wits, and the perennial crowd pleaser: the underdog story.

I noticed something on my second viewing that I’m happy to discuss with the more politically minded but it’s a pretty deep topic and so I’ll leave you with this thought for your second viewing: pay attention to all the rebel uniforms. There are factions we are supposed to like and factions we are not supposed to like. The uniforms evoked associations in me as an American viewer around various guerrilla forces including American forces in Vietnam and Insurgent forces in Iraq and Afganistan, (as portrayed by media; I’ve never seen either in person). It was pretty clear to me who was supposed to be the bad guy and who was supposed to be the underdog, though they never fought each other directly.

In any case, I enjoyed the movie very much and would be happy to geek out on it with any and all interested parties. Or uninterested parties. I’ll geek out on anyone if I get the chance. I’m so happy!

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Craft? Calling?

I have a friend. He’s nice, painfully intelligent, not always intuitive when it comes to human relations, and recently spent some time in Seattle. Part of the reason for coming to Seattle was to sleep with a mutual friend. She’s a safe person to experiment with and attractive in body and mind so it made sense for him to fly halfway cross the country for a shag.

You see, my friend has had a short string of sexually unsatisfying relationships and had convinced himself that he was broken. Even our safe mutual friend didn’t result in the kind of fireworks he’s been told casual sex brings. His sexual history is at best mediocre and at worst actively traumatizing.

As the resident sexpert and friend, I was consulted over tacos and beer. Through euphamisms and shy, circular innuendos he told me that he was disappointed in the sex he had had with our friend. A few drinks later we got into more detail and I realized that I knew exactly what he was talking about. More importantly, I knew why he was so confused.

 

Girls Talk
Girls Talk

We women talk about sex ALL the time. Women talk to each other about how many, how big, how long, how funny, and most of all how bad our lovers can be. In my social circles it’s rarely painful but we accumulate funny stories and share them to relieve tension and build friendships. Girls are used to non-orgasmic sex, we’re used to bad lovers and men who push too far too fast. We’re used to having sex when we’re not really in the mood. We see it in media, hear about it from our friends, and live it. Boys don’t.

My friend had been having what I call maintenance sex. Maintenance sex is sex you have when you’re not really interested in the sex but you’re interested in the sex having been done. Sometimes it’s to connect with your partner, sometimes it’s to get a reward, sometimes it’s to get him to be quiet and go to sleep so you can stay up late watching Lost Girl. The reason doesn’t matter, the reality is that it’s generally mediocre and rarely orgasmic. The problem with my friend’s maintenance sex is that the reward he was expecting was an amazingly pleasurable experience. Maintenance sex isn’t amazingly pleasurable. So he was trying to build relationships he wasn’t that interested in, gain a reward he couldn’t have, and instead of a the freedom to watch a badly written sex drama about a succubus and her impossibly attractive friends in peace, he got confusion, shame, and anger.

I told him what I thought: that he wasn’t broken, just unusual. He had been allowing his partners the choice and initiative, assuming that if she was ready, he would be. In mainstream media and in most relationships, this is true. Unfortunately for my friend, it wasn’t true for him. He is now looking forward to an arduous journey of self exploration. He will have to pay attention to how he feels when in a relationship. He will have to learn to know what HE wants instead of simply reacting to what SHE wants. We’ve been working so hard to teach this to young women that we forget: young men need to know this, too.

As the fiery, eloquent Connor Habib once said: “This country doesn’t need more sex education, it needs relationship education.”

 

And, as all humans do, I take this story and ask what it has to do with me. Well, I wonder if perhaps this was a nudge. I’ve become quite good at my craft. I bring genuine skilled bodywork together with elegant sensuality and season it with sprightly conversation to create an organic, sexy, playful, satisfying session every time. And I’m getting bored. New clients still bring a rush of excitement and I do take great pleasure in the ease of comfortable relationships but there’s only so many things I can do with my hands before I have to get really kinky. It’s possible I will explore a discipline called Sexological Bodywork. It’s a form of counseling that involves hands on sessions. Generally focused on sexual relationships with self and others, the hands on portion allows the client to experience needed touch in a safe environment from a trained professional. Combined with clothed talking sessions it can help healing from sexual trauma and growth into a healthy sexual whole.

Anyway, that’s the future isn’t it? For now, I’m just happy to have helped out a friend. He’s got a long way to go before he’s settled into a happy, long term loving relationship and until then, I’ll do my best to help him, help you, and reach myself some life goals!

 

TourDeEiffel

 

Speaking of goals:

Make more money than I did this year

Never miss a post or a newsletter this year

Get halfway through my book

Go camping at least one long weekend

Become fluent in French

Lose 10 pounds

Eat better food!

And of course you know: no meat, alcohol, or coffee until my birthday!

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December Sunset at the Market

I was walking past the Market yesterday on my way to meet with Raquel and talk party planning when I stopped for a moment. The sun was low but the day was yet young and so the streets were busy. It was icy cold so everyone I saw was bundled up in their thick scarves and warm jackets, moving quickly but easily in clusters to and fro. Above their heads the sky was bright orange and Alkai stood in sharp releif. The water taxi busily plowed its way across the sound, sparing commuters from the infernal West Seattle Bridge. The water shimmered, reflecting the clear winter sun and I stopped for a long moment to appreciate it.

I did this in Paris, too, lying down at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, waiting for its majesty to fade and my sense of awe to subside. It took a full twenty minutes of looking up before it began to feel normal. I was only about a hundred yards from one foot, lying down looking up the length. That’s a good angle for photos of tall women, too, exaggerating the length of their thighs and catching that tantalizing under-boob.

At first I watched the elevator rising and falling, taking folks past the innumerable stairs to the tippy top. Someday: Je marche les escaliers de Tour de Eiffel. But not that day. When the movement got old I contemplated the perspective: its feet curve outward as they approach the ground, exaggerating its height by playing tricks with your eyes. My eye followed the long, elegant curve over and over, drawn irresistibly to where it disappeared into the sky. I’d seen images before and there were far better ones on the post cards than anything I captured, but sometimes you don’t really recognize things for what they are until you’re right up close.

Paris doesn’t have a lot of tall buildings but its uneven topography, at least from my approach, meant it snuck up on me a bit. It didn’t really begin to impress me until I was just on the other side of the river. Even then, it doesn’t quite awe. Not yet. Not until I stand right in front of it, nearly between its toes, do I feel tiny. Minuscule. Admiring the achievements of greater folk than I in a harder time than today.

Standing in the Market yesterday, watching the sun set over a bright crowd, I felt that sense again. The sense of walking a road paved by many others before me, who worked harder than I have, creating something lasting and beautiful.

I have a countdown timer set to the solstice so I know exactly how long the days continue to shrink. In my mind I repeat ‘only three month before spring’ as a mantra, shielding me from the cold along with my black wool and double layer of socks. I hate the cold, but standing there, taking a moment out of my day to appreciate and enjoy the natural and curated beauty of this city, I didn’t mind it so much. I snapped a photo on my pocket computer/camera/notebook and walked on to a warm meal prepared by creative experts to talk seriously about throwing a party. I love this city. I hope I don’t get priced out and have to move.